


The Elemental Affair

by LeetheT



Category: The Man from UNCLE
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-04
Updated: 2014-04-04
Packaged: 2018-01-18 04:33:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1415257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeetheT/pseuds/LeetheT





	The Elemental Affair

_This airy nothing is based on a segment of the 1973 movie ”From Beyond the Grave” starring Margaret Leighton as the most delightful Madame Orloff._

“We’re supposed to meet Patricia Waverly at five o’clock.” Napoleon glanced at his watch, looked around the high street of the village of Beckton. “That at least gives us time for tea and crumpets, what?”

Illya rolled his eyes at Napoleon’s toff imitation. “Even in your native tongue, your accent is appalling. How do you do it?”

“Not all of us are natural phonies,” Napoleon said, shoving his hands into his coat pockets as a faint drizzle began to fall.

“Yes,” Illya murmured. “I can see where being an UNCLE agent wouldn’t require the ability to dissemble.” He scanned the medieval high street, lined with narrow shops of varying levels of quaintness. One ancient car puttered slowly down the street that boasted no more than half a dozen pedestrians aside from the UNCLE agents. In the distance on a hill, grey in the afternoon light, sat Beckton Manor, ancestral home of a branch of Alexander Waverly’s family.

* * *

“Sorry to interrupt your holiday,” Waverly had said that morning via communicator. “To be quite frank, my brother’s line has always been rather overimaginative, but the police haven’t been able to find anything solid, and there does seem to be a bit of a mystery going on ...”

“I understand, sir,” Napoleon had said, grinning up at his partner as he entered the hotel dining room. “Family obligations and all.”

“Indeed,” Waverly had grumbled. “If you’d be so good as to look in on my grand-niece Patricia and see if you can clear things up...”

“It would be our pleasure, sir,” Napoleon had said, shutting off the communicator before Illya’s harrumph could reach their boss’s ear.

* * *

They strolled up the street in the faint drizzle, collars turned up.

“How is your leg?” Illya asked.

“My leg is fine, thank you,” Napoleon replied, just a hint of snap in his tone to indicate he was tired of being asked.

“I only mention it because you’re limping again,” Illya said.

“And you thought discussion might make the bullet hole heal faster?” This time there was more than a hint of impatience in his words.

“All right, all right.” Illya raised his hands in surrender, unoffended. “It’s just that if you aren’t 100 percent, my job is that much harder, and...” He dodged Napoleon’s half-hearted jab toward his ribs.

“I’ll shoot you in the leg, then,” Napoleon said. “That should even things out again, right?” In front of an antiques shop, he stopped, pointed across the street. “There. Spot of tea, old chum?”

Illya looked at the restaurant, back at the antiques shop.

“Will you excuse me a moment, Napoleon?” Illya touched his arm and went to the door of the shop. One hand on the handle, he paused, looked back. “Why don’t you go ahead? I’ll meet you in the cafe.” He nodded across the street.

Napoleon shrugged. “Sure. I’ll save you a scone.”

* * *

In the restaurant, tea at his right hand, Napoleon donned the special telescopic glasses R&D had given him to test, rested his chin on his hand as if perusing the paper propped before him, and scanned the quiet village street. Pretty, idyllic, even, but not the place he would have chosen to spend the next few precious days off. He’d been within three words of persuading his partner they should pop off to Monaco for a much-deserved taste of the high life when Waverly’s call had come in.

He zoomed in on the antiques shop, curious as to what was keeping Illya. He immediately caught sight of that unmistakable blond thatch. Illya was talking — laughing — with a man in the shop. Probably the owner, as they were on either side of a counter, both touching something small that rested thereon.

Something in the easiness of his partner’s body language pricked Napoleon’s interest. He scanned the owner. Tall, dark-haired, handsome in a professorial, typically English way. Probably about 40, he wore a white shirt with the sleeves folded up. He had an appealing smile that showed large white teeth.

Napoleon watched both men look at the item on the counter. He couldn’t get a clear angle on the item, but he was more interested in the interplay between the men. They spoke as if they were acquainted, which surprised Napoleon. He knew Illya had attended Cambridge, so his having acquaintances in this town wasn’t incomprehensible. It shouldn’t have been surprising, either, but it was. If it were anyone but Illya, who presented a staunchly unromantic facade to the world, the idea of a friendship with an antiques dealer would seem bizarre, but Napoleon knew the sentimental side underneath, and also his partner’s widely varied interests.

So why is it needling you to see them laughing together? Napoleon asked himself, and pulled off the glasses with a snort of impatience. You just like to think you know all about him, and every time you’re reminded that you don’t, it bothers you.

Napoleon shook his head, sipped his tea.

A few minutes later Illya bounded out of the shop and across the road. He came into the cafe wearing the echo of his earlier laughter still on his face.

Napoleon had to grin in response. “All that and you didn’t get what you were after?”

“I got it,” Illya said, sliding into the chair facing Napoleon.

“Are you going to make me ask?”

The smile became more secretive. “Do your worst.” He picked up a menu.

What Napoleon really wanted to ask was who the man was, if he was an old friend. That sounded too much like a jealous wife for Napoleon’s ego. Instead he said, “Bigger than a breadbox? Animal, vegetable or mineral?”

Eyes still on the menu, Illya said, “No to the first, yes to the second.”

“Yes to the second?”

“It is animal or vegetable or mineral.” He glanced up at Napoleon, eyes sparkling with amusement.

“You are far too chipper for this damp and chilly day,” Napoleon replied, but his spirits responded of their own accord to Illya’s unaccustomed cheerfulness.

“A successful mission always makes me happy,” Illya said blandly, waving for a passing waitress. “And hungry.”

“We haven’t even started our mission yet,” Napoleon said.

Illya grinned briefly, turned his attention to the waitress.

While they were eating, Illya asked, “What is the problem again?”

“Well, Mr. Waverly was rather vague.” Napoleon set down his cutlery and glanced about the room, not wishing to be overheard.

“Apparently Patricia Waverly has been attacked in her sleep three times. No sign of forced entry, no fingerprints or witnesses.”

“Attacked?” The sharp query was a request for specifics.

Napoleon cleared his throat. “Strangled. Attempts on her ...”

Eyebrow arched, Illya supplied, “Virtue?”

“Yes. Also were made.”

“Is there any physical evidence?”

“Bruising and lacerations about the neck, stomach, legs and back. Witnessed by her staff and the doctor. Her father, Mr. Waverly’s nephew, is deceased. Her mother is very ill, confined to her bed. She hasn’t been told. Weak heart. The girl, Patricia, thinks it’s a ... ah ... poltergeist.”

Illya rolled his eyes. “Naturally.” He snatched the remaining scone from Napoleon’s plate and spread it lavishly with jam while Napoleon dug into his wallet to pay the bill.

* * *

After lunch, they walked up the hill to the manor. Illya’s suggestion that they hire a cab was met with frosty silence, and he refrained from comment as Napoleon’s limp grew more pronounced during the gentle climb. It started to sprinkle again, and Napoleon sighed.

“What?”

“I was just thinking we could be in Monte Carlo right now, sipping champagne, maybe playing the tables.” He peered squint-eyed through the rain. “Beautiful women draped like expensive furs all over us...”

“This wasn’t my idea,” Illya countered. “Besides, Mr. Waverly could have reached us just as easily in Monaco.”

“I know. I’m just in the mood for a little self-pity. Indulge me.”

Illya snorted. “I don’t think indulging you is in my job description. Anyway you only make it worse by dwelling on what you can’t have.”

They were met at the gatehouse by a pretty blonde girl in plain tweeds who introduced herself as Patricia Waverly’s secretary and assistant, Maggie Meacham.

“Trish asked me to come look for you,” she said as she walked with them up the winding gravel drive. “She’s anxious to get this stopped.”

“We’ll do what we can,” Napoleon said. Illya scanned the trees lining the drive, the manicured grounds beyond.

She gave them several long sidelong stares as they walked, until finally Napoleon said mildly:

“We probably need a little more to go on before we astound you with the solution, Miss Meacham.”

She flushed. “I’m sorry. I suppose ... I’ve never met a spy before. We live very quietly here, and I didn’t ...” She shook her head. “I do apologize for staring.”

“Is there anything you can tell us about what’s happened?” Illya asked, overriding Napoleon’s polite assurance that they weren’t offended by her curiosity. He glared at his tactless partner, who ignored him.

“I really can’t tell you much. For the past three nights, always past midnight but at varying hours, Trish has awoken screaming, saying someone is attacking her. Every time she’s been in her bed, quite alone. I sleep in the next suite of rooms, and I was there within a minute, every time. After the first time she had Gordon, the butler, sit up downstairs, in case someone were coming and going that way. The windows are always shut and locked.” Maggie shook her head. “She’s terribly battered and bruised about the neck. And the scratches on her back ... just dreadful. She never sees anyone. She says it happens when she’s asleep, stops when she awakens. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know if it’s some very clever intruder, or if ...”

“If she’s doing it to herself?” Illya finished. She shot him a look of automatic anger, then shook her head again.

“I just don’t know. She ... Trish is normally the sanest, most sensible girl in the world. You’ll see for yourself. She’s not stupid or flighty. But this has got her very upset. I hope you can find out what’s doing this to her. Even if ...” she turned away.

“You’re good friends?” Napoleon asked. She nodded, wiping her eyes.

“Even though I work for her, we are friends. We met at university. I help her run the estate since her father’s death. Her mother isn’t well enough to do anything. She hasn’t been told, and she mustn’t be. It might literally scare her to death.”

“Is it possible that’s what someone is trying to do to Patricia?” Napoleon asked.

Maggie shrugged. “I don’t know what for. As long as her mum’s alive, it’s not as if Trish’s death would put the estate in someone else’s hands, you know? Anyone who wanted the place would have to do them both in. And she doesn’t have any enemies that I know of.”

They’d reached the porticoed front of the house, a substantial dark stone structure with tall windows. Maggie led the way into the medieval hall and asked them to wait. Her footfalls echoed around the cavernous stone hall as she walked away.

Napoleon looked around at the vaulted ceiling, the stone gallery, the pennons and tapestries and weapons hanging from the walls. He’d always known Waverly came from an old family; he’d rarely seen such clear evidence that it was a wealthy one as well.

“Nice work if you can get it,” he observed.

“I would give you approximately three days as a member of the idle rich,” Illya said, eyeing the weapons on the walls, “before you started killing your servants just to alleviate your boredom.”

Napoleon scowled, mulling the idea. “I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or an insult.”

“Neither. It’s an accurate description of your personality.” Illya leaned close to a long knife mounted on the wall, fingered the edge, hissed, jerking his hand back. “It’s sharp.”

Napoleon watched him suck on his sliced digit. “That doesn’t count as being injured in the line of duty,” he remarked. “In case you were wondering.”

Illya gave him a dirty look and examined his finger tenderly.

Maggie returned from the depths of the house and showed them both into a long library with tall windows overlooking a broad lawn, framed by trees over which the sun was sinking. Another young woman, brunette, sat in a leather chair in front of an unlit fire. She rose as the men entered and shook their hands. She was tall, more slender than Maggie and pale, wearing a high-collared dress with long sleeves.

“Please sit down, gentlemen,” she said, her voice soft and cultured. “My great-uncle Alexander said you might be able to help me. I’m grateful that you’ve come, but ... don’t think me rude in observing that your skills as intelligence operatives are probably not what is needed here.”

“Then you know what is happening?” Illya asked.

“Something is attacking me,” she said. “Something ... not of this world.”

“Miss Waverly—” Napoleon began.

“How else do you explain it?” she asked. “The doors and windows are locked. There are no secret passages — we checked old plans of the house, and the police tapped the walls or whatever it is they do.”

She saw the agents exchange a look and accurately interpreted it.

“Even if you thought I was doing this to myself — how do you explain the scratches on my back? I’m not a contortionist, you know. Something ... something invisible is doing this. A ghost or a spirit or something, I don’t know, but...” she began to weep, almost calmly. “I just want it to stop. I’m ... I’m terrified to fall asleep.” Maggie, standing behind her chair, touched her shoulder.

“What is it you’d like us to do?” Napoleon asked.

She dabbed at her eyes. “I’m willing to consider the possibility that the ... the person attacking me is someone you can catch. If you would keep watch tonight...” she blushed, very becomingly. “You are trained observers. You may see or hear something no one else has. If so, we will proceed from there. If not, I will try to find an expert in ... in a more unusual field.” She met their dubious stares. “I will do whatever it takes to stop this, gentlemen, before it kills me or drives me mad.”

Napoleon looked at his partner. “We’ll keep watch tonight, Miss Waverly. Before then, can you or someone else show us around the house? We’d like to check things out as thoroughly as possible.”

“I can do it, Trish,” Maggie said, “if you’re not up for it.”

“Would you, please?” Trish said. “I would be glad if you gentlemen would stay for dinner, of course. We don’t dress any more; I don’t really see the point.”

Napoleon smiled. “You’re a modern young lady.”

She smiled back. “I’m a lazy young lady, Mr. Solo. Emeralds and velvet every night just seems a little excessive to me. My parents would be shocked, but ...”

“Your mother doesn’t join you for meals?” Illya asked.

“She doesn’t leave her rooms,” Trish said. “Will you ... will you wish to speak to her?”

“Not unless we must,” Napoleon said kindly. “We understand that your mother is frail. We won’t trouble her unless it’s absolutely necessary.”

“Thank you. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your kindness.” She got up and shook hands with them again. “Maggie will show you anything you want to see.”

The secretary came around from behind the chair, beaming at the two agents.

“If you’ll follow me...”

* * *

“I’m sorry if you’re uncomfortable,” Napoleon said.

“Oh, no.” Trish blushed, sitting up in bed with the covers pulled up around her. “Well, yes. I’m not used to having two men in my bedroom. But I know my great-uncle would never have sent anyone I could not trust utterly and completely. It’s just ...  well, for you to be sitting over there while I’m here in bed is just ... very odd.”

“You have no idea,” Illya said as he examined the locks and hinges on the tall windows overlooking the gardens.

Napoleon shot him a dirty look, returned his attention to Trish. “Can you sleep if we leave the light on?”

She sighed. “I can’t really sleep either way, until I get quite exhausted.”

“Turn yours off,” Napoleon said, nodding toward the bedside lamp. “We’ll leave this one on.” He waved at the floor lamp that stood next to the easy chair he was camped in. “That should be enough light to see if anyone comes in.”

She shut off the bedside lamp and slid down under the blankets with a tired sigh. Napoleon opened his jacket, ready to draw his gun at the slightest hint of a nocturnal intruder.

Illya finished checking the windows and came to sit on the ottoman next to Napoleon. The agents had been given an exhaustive and exhausting tour of the manor, then enjoyed a delicious dinner in the very appealing company of Trish and Maggie, both of whom made an effort to throw off their fears and play the role of gracious hostess to the men.

A quarter of an hour after she’d turned off the lights, Trish was asleep.

Illya looked up at his partner, then dug into his pocket and pulled out a little flat metal box which he extended to Napoleon. Both men spoke softly.

“What’s this?” the American asked, taking it.

“Aspirin.” He didn’t continue, but Napoleon sighed. It didn’t surprise him that Illya could see in his face that his leg was hurting him. It annoyed him, though.

“Illya, I —”

“We can argue about this,” Illya cut in, his voice soft but intense, “or you can just take the aspirin now.” Before Napoleon could muster a comeback, the Russian cleverly switched tactics, laying his hand on Napoleon’s arm and pressing gently.

Startled, Napoleon forgot what he’d been about to say.

“Pride is a very poor pain-killer,” Illya said.

Napoleon shook his head, breathed a curse. “You are ruthless, aren’t you?”

Illya smiled.

“All right. I’ll take the damn’ aspirin,” Napoleon said.

“I’ll get you a glass of water.” Illya got up and went into the adjacent bathroom, coming back quickly with water.

Napoleon downed three aspirin with the glass of water, then stretched his leg carefully out on the ottoman next to Illya. It was 11:13 p.m. They’d set up passive alarms at the door and windows; beyond that they could only wait.

Napoleon sighed, leaning back in the chair, eyes shut; he could count on his partner to not let him fall asleep. “I’m sorry for being such an ...” He left the word off, knowing Illya could supply it as well as he could, and in more languages. In the dimness, with his eyes closed, he was able to force out the words: “Thank you for ... caring.” He knew he didn’t say it often enough, but he also knew that Illya understood without having to hear the words.

Warmth under the sarcasm, Illya said, “Someone has to. You won’t let anyone else do it.”

Napoleon smiled, opened his eyes. “You’re pretty good at it, too.” He let his gaze drift over Trish, on her side in the big canopied bed, unmoving, presumably still asleep. “For a cranky sarcastic bad-tempered Russian.”

“Has it occured to you that I’m only bad-tempered around you?”

“How would I know?”

“Hm. Good point.” Illya crossed his legs on the ottoman and drew his gun, letting it rest on his knee.

“Planning on shooting the ghost?” Napoleon asked.

“Only as a first resort,” Illya replied matter-of-factly.

* * *

Near dawn, Trish began to stir in her sleep. Both men eased into more alert positions, but the light was bright enough to see clearly that no one was near her. She settled down again, then started to thrash gently. The men holstered their weapons and got up, one on each side of the bed.

Napoleon stopped. Something ... the air felt thick, as with static. He put out his hands, saw the fine hairs on the backs jump upright. He glanced at Illya, saw bits of blond hair dancing.

“Some sort of field?” Illya suggested dubiously. He sniffed, wrinkled his face. “That smell...”

Eyes still shut, Trish began to thrash harder, pulling her hands from under the covers and holding them above her as if warding off some flying thing. She moaned in protest.

Her eyes flew open, bugged with pain and terror, and she screamed. Spots of blood appeared on the neck of her white nightgown. Napoleon and Illya dove through the heavy static-filled air, each grasping one of her arms, even though she was quite evidently not attacking herself. Blood burned red in her face and she screamed again.

Napoleon felt something like an arm — like a tree branch — hammer across his ribs, knocking him off his feet and into a heavy dresser. He hit hard; stars danced in his vision around the image of his partner being similarly flung backward, to hit a heavy iron candle stand and spin to the floor, the stand tipping to fall on top of him.

Trish shrieked and sat bolt upright, her face now white. Her arms fell to her sides.

Napoleon became aware of a pressure in his ears only now, as it faded, faded, vanished, like a siren wailing into silence. He shook himself, still stunned.

The only sound in the room was Trish’s labored gasping for air.

“Illya!” The word was a demand for his partner’s position and state of health.

“I’m all right,” Illya said as he untangled himself from the candle stand and picked himself up from the floor.

Napoleon got up to see Trish sitting, trembling, her high-necked nightgown spotted with blood about her shoulders. He sat gingerly on the edge of the bed and Trish fell sobbing weakly into his arms. He held her with one arm and, with the other, examined her hands. Nails unbroken, no flesh or blood beneath them. He eased her limp form back and delicately unbuttoned the top buttons of her nightgown. Though the gown was undamaged, her throat and shoulders bore fresh bleeding cuts and scratches. Napoleon could clearly see the white imprints in her neck, as from tiny, powerful hands.

Someone hammered at the door, then they heard Maggie calling out: “Trish? Mr Solo? Mr Kuryakin?”

Illya went to the door, disabled the alarm, and let Maggie in. She rushed toward the bed, stopping when she saw Napoleon holding Trish, saw the upended furniture.

“Oh my God.”

Napoleon got up, letting Trish go. “Maggie, do you want to help her get cleaned up a bit? I think she should spend the rest of the night—”

“She can stay in my room,” Maggie said. Trish shook her head.

“I’m fine,” she muttered. “I’m fine.” She sounded dazed.

Maggie came to her, grasping her firmly. “Come on. No arguments, love.” She lifted Trish from the bed and guided her into the bathroom. Napoleon watched them go, watched the door shut, then turned his gaze to the bed. Spots of blood dotted the pillowcase, and a faint sulphurous smell hung in the air.

Illya, behind him, said, “Are you all right?”

“Just bruised,” Napoleon said. “Can you smell that?” He glanced at Illya, who nodded.

“But that feeling in the air is gone,” the American went on. “Like before a rainstorm, only stronger.”

Illya poked at the pillow, shaking his head.

The two women came out of the bathroom. Trish was calm now, though still pale and unsteady, wrapped in a warm bathrobe.

“Should we call your doctor?” Illya asked. She shook her head vehemently.

“I’m all right. I ... I’m going to find a medium,” she said, raising her eyes to them defiantly, though they weren’t arguing.

“I know you gentlemen are trying to help, but this is nothing of this world.”

Napoleon glanced at his partner, said, “Miss Waverly, I don’t believe in ghosts. But considering how little help we’ve been, I won’t try to talk you out of this.”

“You don’t need to stay,” Trish said. “It’s morning. I’ll rest a while in Maggie’s room. Nothing ever happens during the day. So far, anyway.”

“I think ...” Napoleon began to protest, but she cut him off.

“Really. It’s all right, Mr. Solo. I do appreciate your help, you and Mr. Kuryakin.”

“I think I know where to find a medium,” Illya said, astonishing Napoleon.

Trish looked at him as if she were drowning and he’d held out a hand to pull her to shore. Maggie stared in frank amazement.

“Do you?” Trish asked.

“Yes.” He started surreptitiously pushing Napoleon toward the door. “I know ... an expert in the field. We’ll look into it today and get back to you.”

“Mr Kuryakin!” she exclaimed, as surprised as she was hopeful. “If ... if you could, I would be eternally grateful.”

“Expert?” Napoleon echoed quietly.

Illya shoved him more firmly, calling over his shoulder, “We’ll be in touch, Miss Waverly, Miss Meacham.”

The two women watched them go, puzzled.

* * *

As they descended the stairs Napoleon said quietly, “Well, whatever it is, it’s not an outside party.” He shrugged. “Maybe it is a ghost.”

“Or some form of hysteria,” Illya said. “There are documented cases of psychological problems that resulted in stigmata, extraordinary strength...”

Napoleon glanced at him, brows high. “Cuts and scratches under her clothes and no tears in the clothes themselves? No flesh or blood on her hands? The ability to fling two grown men across the room without lifting a finger? And that is more plausible than a ghost?”

Illya tilted his head slightly, an acknowledgement of Napoleon’s point.

Outside in the damp early-morning air, Napoleon asked patiently, “Where are we going?”

“Breakfast first,” Illya said. “Then the antiques shop.”

Napoleon’s brows jumped. “Really? It’s become rather a home away from home for you, suddenly, hasn’t it?”

Illya smiled. “I have something to pick up anyway.”

* * *

“This is Dr. Nicholas Pierce. He was one of my tutors at Cambridge.”

Pierce came around the counter, smiling. “A pleasure to meet you, Napoleon.” The grin widened infectiously. “And I never imagined I’d be putting those words together in that way.”

Despite himself, Napoleon smiled. The men shook hands.

“I was surprised to see Illya in my shop yesterday,” Pierce went on. “He—”

“Actually,” Illya cut him off smoothly, “We came here today to take advantage of another area of your expertise.” Both Pierce and Napoleon looked at him, neither missing the unsubtle change of subject.

“Anything I can do for an old student,” Pierce said. “Come in back and I’ll fix a cup of tea.”

Pierce had the back of his shop set up as a study-cum-sitting room. He put a kettle on and set out tea things, then settled his guests on the sofa, sat in a battered armchair, and set his elbows on his knees.

“What can I do for you?”

Illya explained what they’d experienced, and what Trish Waverly thought was the cause.

Pierce shook his head slowly, absorbing the tale.

“My expertise is more in the history of the occult than in combatting it,” Pierce said. “If you ... or rather, if Miss Waverly wishes to pursue that angle, I do know a medium. Mad as a hatter, of course, but a sterling reputation in her line of work. Sharp old thing, too; don’t let the trappings fool you.” He opened his desk drawers, one after the other, until he found a wooden card file. “Her name’s Madame Orloff. She lives in London, but she’ll come down if you ring her and tell her it’s important ... here it is.” He pulled out a battered red business card, handing it to Napoleon. He read: Madame Orloff, psychic extraordinaire, messages from beyond a speciality.

Glancing up from under his brows at his partner, Napoleon pocketed the card. “Thanks, Dr. Pierce.”

Pierce smiled. “You can call me Nicholas.”

“Excuse me a moment,” Illya said, moving to the front of the shop to pick up a fat dusty book he’d spotted in the window.

Watching him peruse the tome, Napoleon asked Pierce, “What do you think about all this?”

Pierce shrugged. “I find the subject fascinating from a scholarly angle, but I confess I’m rather a skeptic. I do think, though, that the human mind can occasionally perform ... extraordinary psychic behaviors that can appear to have been caused by unseen spirits. Madame Orloff is attuned to these sorts of energies, though she would define them somewhat differently than you or I might. Sometimes, if a person is disturbed and displaying these sorts of powers, a session with a psychic can eliminate the problem, though not for the reasons the psychic or the victim might believe.”

“The power of suggestion, you mean?” Napoleon said.

“That is my view,” Pierce answered, smiling. “Madame Orloff would differ.” He nodded toward Illya. “I think I’ve made a sale.”

The two men chuckled. “Illya always leaves room in his suitcase for books,” Napoleon said.

“You’re good friends, aren’t you?” Pierce said, still smiling, as Illya headed back for them, the book still in his hands. “Illya has spoken of you—”

“Yes, thank you, Nicholas,” Illya cut in as he reached them. “I’ll have this, if you don’t mind—” He lifted the book— “and then we really must be going.”

“Thank you for your help, doc—Nicholas,” Napoleon said.

* *  *

Back at the hotel, Napoleon contacted Mr. Waverly and updated him. Then he pulled out the big red business card and called the number on it.

A strident voice in accents of cut crystal came on the line. “Madame Orloff, clairvoyant extraordinaire, messages from beyond a speciality.”

Taken aback by the energetic greeting, Napoleon stumbled over his tongue for a moment.

“Ah, Madame Orloff. My name is Napoleon Solo. I have a ... a friend who might have need of your services.”

“What sort of services?” she trumpeted. “Exorcism, seance, card reading? My fees for all are very reasonable. Half price on Thursdays.”

“Ah, we aren’t exactly sure. Some kind of ... haunting, perhaps. We wondered if it would be possible to meet with you.”

“Best if I come to you,” she said unhesitatingly. “I’ll learn more about the nature of the haunting in situ. Where is this friend? You sound like an American. I must warn you my travel expenses will be—”

“Madame,” Napoleon cut in smoothly, “I am an American, but the ... ah ... trouble is at Beckton Manor, Beckton.”

“Beckton? Why yes,” she piped. “I know the town. Shall I belt down this afternoon? I believe there’s a 4 o’clock train. Can you meet me off the train, Mr. Solo?”

“Ah ... yes, Madame. I’ll be there. Thank you.”

“Not at all, young man. See you soon.” She banged the phone down. Napoleon winced, hung up.

“Well?” Illya asked. His gun sat in pieces on the table as he drew a cleaning rod through the barrel.

“I think Madame Orloff may be more of a character than Trish’s homicidal ghost,” Napoleon said, shaking his head. “I’ll be meeting her train this afternoon. I think you’d better go back up to the manor and keep an eye on Misses Waverly and Meacham.”

“You think they’re in any danger now?” Illya asked, reassembling his weapon.

“I’ll feel better if there’s someone there who isn’t convinced this attacker is coming from ... the other side.”

Illya chuckled softly. “I see your point.”

“Be careful,” Napoleon said sternly. “Even if it is someone from the other side. I don’t want him taking you back with him.”

“Yes, I know.” Illya slapped a fresh clip into his clean gun. “New partners are so hard to train.”

* * *

Madame Orloff was a tall woman in a long flowery dress, with masses of wild white hair flowing out from under a floppy broad-brimmed hat. She peered sharply at Napoleon from behind thick, black-rimmed glasses, and put out a well-manicured hand to shake his with a surprisingly strong grip. In her other hand she carried a floral-patterned carpet bag.

“Mr. Solo, I presume? I’m Madame Orloff.”

“Madame,” he said, bowing slightly over her hand. She looked him up and down.

“You’re quite a handsome fellow,” she said, “for an American.”

“And you are a very direct lady,” he replied, smiling. “For any nationality.”

She laughed a throaty laugh. “I’m much too old to beat about the bush, Mr. Solo. You’ll have to forgive my bluntness; I work in my own manner, you know.”

He escorted her to the taxi he’d hired, helped her in, and instructed the driver to take them to the manor.

“Now, what can you tell me about this manifestation, Mr. Solo?” She asked in her strident voice. “I can see already you’ve gone a round with it.”

“You can?”

“Oh yes, the ectoplasmic remnants of the encounter are evident.” She pointed at him as if he had spilled food down his chest.

Napoleon looked down at himself, blinked. “If you say so, Madame.”

He explained the situation to her in the cab, noticing the driver’s expression grow more disbelieving with every word. Madame Orloff, however, simply took it all in with a matter-of-fact intensity.

“It sounds as if you might have a poltergeist on your hands. Possibly an elemental, though they’re less common. Any small children or pets in the house?”

“Ah ... no children. I don’t know about pets.”

Madame Orloff tsked. “They can always tell. They can actually see them, you understand.”

Napoleon had nothing to say to that.

* * *

Maggie met them in the hall.

“How do you do, my dear. Aren’t you pretty. But you aren’t the subject of the haunting, are you?” Madame Orloff looked questioningly at Napoloen.

“No, she isn’t. How did you—?”

“Oh, my dear boy, I can tell, after all these years.”

“I’ll take you in,” Maggie said, giving Napoleon a quick dubious glance. She led the way to the library, where once again Trish sat by the fire, looking wan and unwell. Napoleon wondered where Illya was as Madame Orloff approached Trish in the direct manner to which he was rapidly growing accustomed.

“How do you do, dear? Well, not very well, I can see. No, indeed, you have a nasty elemental attached to you, just there—” she pointed to Trish’s left shoulder. Everyone, including Trish, looked at the spot.

“Have I?” Trish said.

“Yes indeed. Sucking the life right out of you. Attacked you, has he?”

Trish nodded.

“Anyone else?”

Napoleon almost spoke before catching himself. Trish, however, had no compunction.

“He knocked Mr. Solo and his friend across the room.”

“Aha.” Madame Orloff peered at Napoleon over the tops of her black-rimmed glasses. “I thought as much.” She returned her gaze to Trish.

“Choked you, has he? And ... more delicate things?” Her trumpet voice actually dropped a little at that question. Trish flushed, nodded.

“Yes, he’s a rare one, combination homicidal and sex-crazed. You don’t see that very often. We must get rid of him as soon as possible, my dear.” She patted Trish’s hand, then turned to survey the room.

“Um...madame?” Maggie ventured. “What is an elemental, exactly?”

“A spirit of air, fire, earth or water. They crave embodiment, you see — to be flesh. They have the hungers of the flesh — the unsavory ones, at least — and if they can suck out enough of the living spirit of a man or woman, they can take over.”

“Take over?” Trish said weakly. Napoleon found himself thinking irreverently that if a spirit wanted a body, he might have chosen worse.

“Never fear, my dear,” Madame Orloff said gamely. “We’ll rout this little blighter soon enough.” She looked about once more. “We need a straight-backed chair.”

“I’ll get one,” Maggie said.

Illya poked his nose in the room as if looking for someone, then approached Napoleon, brushing dust and cobwebs off his black sweater.

“You look like you’ve been...”

“Crawling around secret passages?” Illy finished, giving his hair a quick dusting. “I have. The house has a number of them, but I couldn’t find any that connected to Trish’s room. Nor any wires or projectors or pipes to pump hallucinogenic gases into the room...” He shrugged. Then, lowering his voice, “Is that her? Madame Orloff?”

“That’s her,” Napoleon confirmed, with much meaning in his tone. Illya gave him a curious look. Napoleon shrugged to indicate his abdication of responsibility for whatever followed.

Maggie set up a plain chair in the middle of the room, in front of the cold hearth. Madame Orloff directed Trish to sit there, then asked Maggie to draw the curtains on the tall windows that lined one wall of the room.

“You gentlemen might want to leave,” Madame Orloff said.

“Ah...” Napoleon began.

“We’ll stay,” Illya said.

“Suit yourselves,” she replied, moving to stand behind Trish. “But you may see and hear some strange and startling things.”

“We already have,” Napoleon said sotto voce.

Maggie drew the curtains, pulling a wave of darkness across the room. A silent moment of visual adaptation preceded the agents’ and Maggie’s moving in a loose circle around Madame Orloff and Trish. The library was dim but not dark, thanks to little gaps in the curtains.

Madame Orloff laid her hands on Trish’s shoulders and raised her head.

_“Hear me now you evil spright_

_go back to hell without a fight_

_I curse your spirit and your name_

_you ought to hide yourself in shame!_

_I’ll choke and then I’ll strangle_

_you, then let your body dangle_

_o’er the deepest and the blackest pits_

_I’ll drop you in — I’ll give you fits!”_

Napoleon and Illya exchanged looks of complete amazement.

The room darkened abruptly, and a hum filled the air.

“What in God’s name is that smell?” Maggie asked, covering her face.

The candelabra on the mantel began to dance; the many weapons displayed on the library walls began to rattle. Lightning flashed through gaps in the curtains, and thunder rolled.

_“Release this girl and get thee gone_

_or by my faith I’ll send you on_

_a tour of grief you won’t forget_

_I know your kind, I’ll have you yet!_

_Out fiend! Out! You don’t belong_

_among the living, it’s all wrong_

_and I can put you in your place_

_I’ve got you now, I’ve won the chase!”_

The long table in front of the windows shifted, rising into the air a few inches and banging down; pens and pen holders, candlesticks and other items tipped and rolled onto the floor.

The curtains swayed, but their movement let in no more light. It had apparently gotten quite dark outside. The bottles and glasses on the sideboard jittered and slid about. Lightning flashed again, visible even through the heavy curtains, and thunder rattled the windows.

Trish screamed — a long, heartfelt scream that overrode all the other noises.

When she stopped, the room was abruptly still. Madame Orloff stood stiff over Trish, hands still clutching the girl’s shoulders. The curtains and the air hung limp, quiescent. The thunderstorm had abated.

Illya grabbed his partner’s arm. “Napoleon! The dagger!”

The long knife hanging on the wall across from the mantelpiece shivered itself from its mountings and flew toward Madame Orloff

Napoleon launched himself at Madame Orloff, twisting so that when they hit the floor, she landed on him. The knife twanged into the painting over the mantelpiece.

Napoleon sat up, helping Madame Orloff into an upright position.

“Sorry about that, Madame Orloff,” he said, getting to his feet.

“Oh, quite all right, quite all right, young man.” She held up her hands and he helped her to stand. “These things can get ugly very quickly. I’m not usually so slow.” She looked at the knife, looked at Napoleon. “I do believe you may have saved my life, Mr. Solo. Thank you.”

Napoleon brushed himself off. “Think nothing of it, madame.” He raised his head sharply as the room darkened again and the buzzing sound of inanimate objects becoming animate resumed. “Round two, madame?”

Madame Orloff went over to Trish once more. Napoleon strode to his partner. Everything that could move was vibrating, rattling, swinging from its supports, hammering against the stone walls or the floor.

“I wonder if we should take this little seance into a less lethally decorated room,” Illya said. Napoleon turned to suggest that same thing to Madame Orloff.

A bronze shield shot away from the wall, spinning like a giant metal frisbee toward the agents. Trish screamed again, covering her face with both hands.

They hit the floor and it whizzed over their heads, crashing into the heavy stone banister of the stairs in the hallway behind them. The shield clattered to the floor as the agents got their feet under them and turned to face it.

Maggie ran toward them. “Oh my God!”

“Remain calm!” Madame Orloff cried imperiously.

Illya rose, automatically pulled Napoleon upright, and went to the shield, prodding it with his foot. It was inert.

“Did you ... hear something?” Napoleon said, looking around the room. “A kind of faint hum?”

“Yes,” Illya said. “Although ... I felt it more than heard it.”

Maggie touched them both, nervously. “Are you hurt?”

“Not yet,” Napoleon said. “If this is what happens when you try to evict an elemental, maybe you should just try renting it a room.”

“Pay no attention!” Madame Orloff called; she’d resumed her stance behind the rather limp and pale Trish Waverly. “These sorts of things are bound to happen when you begin to dislodge an elemental. They don’t want to let go, you understand.” She leaned on the back of the chair, rather than on Trish. “Goodness, what a labor. Well, let’s start again. Are you all right, my dear?”

Trish swallowed, looked at the agents, and nodded. “Yes.”

“Then let’s continue.” She again gripped Trish’s shoulders. Immediately the light failed and the objects in the room resumed their sinister dance.

The agents exchanged another bemused look. “More bad poetry?” Illya muttered. “I feel like I’m at open mic night in a haunted house.”

Napoleon shushed him. “Remain calm,” he echoed Madame Orloff’s command. Illya gave him the look.

Instead of verse, though, Madame Orloff resorted to more direct verbal assaults.

“Out! You little rotter!” She cried, and the banging and clanging around them increased in volume. A rushing wind suddenly swept through, snatching up papers and antimacassars and scattering them across the library.

“Get out! I’ll rip your heart out!” Madame Orloff snarled, pushing Trish’s unresisting body this way and that on the chair.

“You monster! Let her go this instant!” She pressed down hard. “Get out. Smelly little fiend! Out!” The wind swirled around her and Trish, whipping through hair and clothing.

“Out!” Madame Orloff shouted, and, with a short keening wail, the wind stopped. Trish cried out and slumped in the chair, and the clatterings and crashings all around them fell silent.

For a moment, nothing moved — except Napoleon and Illya, looking around for any more sudden assaults from weaponry.

“That’s done it,” Madame Orloff said, holding Trish’s limp body until the girl moaned and began to straighten up. Maggie dashed to the curtains and pulled them open, then hurried back to Trish’s side, holding her hand.

Madame Orloff stepped away. “I must rest a bit, if you don’t mind.” She staggered to the couch and eased herself down on it.

Trish blinked, looked around the shambles that had been her tidy library. Then she looked at the people staring down at her.

“Trish...” Maggie began.

“I ... I feel so strange,” Trish said, then smiled. “I feel light as a feather...”

“That’s because the nasty little blighter’s no longer weighing you down and drinking up your life force,” Madame Orloff said.

“Oh good heavens,” Trish said, laying her forehead in her hand for a moment to collect herself. She looked up again, her eyes tired but joyful. “Madame Orloff, I do believe you’ve done it!”

“Yes,” she said, sighing. “Mr. Solo, I’d appreciate a spot of something, if you’d be so very kind. That is, if the little monster hasn’t smashed all the glassware.”

Napoleon, torn between disbelief and hilarity, went to the drinks cabinet.

* * *

Maggie took Trish upstairs and tucked her in for some much-needed sleep. Napoleon, finding that all the glass was indeed shattered, offered to go to the pantry for what was needed. Madame Orloff volunteered to join him. Illya remained behind.

“I’ll tidy up a little in here,” he said.

“You mean peruse her books,” Napoleon translated. Illya already had his face in a small but thick book bound in hide and brass.

Chuckling, Napoleon took Madame Orloff’s arm and they made for the kitchens.

* * *

Illya was sitting cross-legged on the desk — swept clean by the elemental excitement — absorbed in his reading when he became aware someone had entered the room. He glanced up to see Maggie coming toward him, and returned his eyes to the page.

“Is Trish all right?” he asked.

“She’s asleep,” Maggie said.

“Good. I’m glad this is over with.” He turned the page — turned it back again, unsure of his own translation — the continued on.

Until a slender hand slid onto the page, blocking his view. He looked up at Maggie, standing directly in front of him.

“Yes? Did you want something?”

She looked him up and down with half-lidded eyes, and a sensual smile touched her mouth. “Yes,” she purred. “I do.”

“Ah.” Illya nodded, moved her hand aside. “Napoleon will be back in a moment.” He continued reading.

She slapped the book out of his hands and moved closer, seizing his lapels. He got up, automatically, and tried to back away.

“Have you been drinking?” he asked. She shook her head, following him step for step until he was backed against the bookshelves.

“Perhaps you should consider it, then,” he said. She shook her head again, wrapped herself very supplely about him and kissed him.

Many thoughts occured to him in the time it took her to slip her tongue into his mouth and her hand between his thighs. Unusually, demonic possession was foremost.

* * *

Napoleon and Madame Orloff came in — stopping cold to see Maggie wrapped around his partner.

“Uh, pardon us—” Napoleon began, surprised.

“Napoleon!” Illya called, wrenching Maggie’s arms from around him.

Napoleon’s amusement vanished at his partner’s tone. He moved forward as Illya shoved Maggie away. The pretty, bright-faced girl was red, gasping, lipstick smeared, hair disarrayed and eyes gleaming with wild passion.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with her,” Illya said, sidling over closer to Napoleon. “She came in and ...”

“Attacked you?” Napoleon said, watching Maggie carefully as she eyed them all like a cornered panther.

“In a way,” Illya admitted, clearly embarrassed, wiping the lipstick off his face.

“Goodness,” Madame Orloff observed, clinically. “It’s gone from one girl to the other.”

Maggie shrieked and dove for Madame Orloff, wrapping her hands around the medium’s neck.

Napoleon and Illya grabbed her and hauled her off; she struggled like a demon, kicking, twisting and trying to bite them.

“She sure runs hot and cold, doesn’t she?” Napoleon observed as Maggie snapped at Illya’s arm. Illya spared him a brief glare.

One hand at her throat, Madame Orloff came forward. “Good. Hold her for me, if you please. He’s not deeply embedded yet. I’ll rout the little bleeder.”

The agents braced themselved, while Maggie snarled at them, her eyes flashing fury. She was stronger than they’d expected; they both had to use some muscle to hold her in place as Madame Orloff laid hands upon her and, throwing back her head, wailed:

“Oooouuuuuuuuuuuut! Oooooouuuuuuuuut! Oooooooouuuuuuuuuuut!”

The air seemed to take up the wail, as if spirits surrounding them howled in complaint. The agents looked around for flying weapons or furniture, but no physical manifestations followed beyond a flickering of the lights. The howling in the air increased and Maggie’s head fell back. Her eyes rolled back into her head and her body stiffened.

“I say ooooooooouuuuuuuuuuuuuuut!” Madame Orloff commanded, and gave Maggie a sharp shake. The girl went limp in the agents’ grasp.

The invisible ... whatever it was ... howled off into the distance and was gone. The lights came back to burn steadily. Illya picked Maggie up and carried her to the sofa.

“Well,” Madame Orloff said briskly, pushing her disarrayed white locks out of her face. “That’s that.”

* * *

Trish and Maggie saw their guests off at the door as a cab from Beckton waited under the portico.

“Madame Orloff,” Trish said. “What can I say? You are wonderful.”

Madame Orloff waved off such praise, shook their hands delicately. “Happy to have been of service, my dears. Best of luck — and stay out of the Underground!”

Trish and Maggie smiled.

“We’ll try,” Trish said, with a significant glance at Napoleon and Illya. Maybe they weren’t complete disbelievers any more, but they were all still skeptics.

Madame Orloff climbed into the front of the cab. Trish Waverly took Napoleon’s and Illya’s hands.

“Thank you so much, for everything. I don’t know how we would have gotten through this without your help and your courage. And I plan on telling my uncle that, too.”

“Thank you,” Napoleon said. “We accept kudos in all denominations.”

She smiled prettily. “You’ll always be welcome here, you know. If you need a quiet place to stay ...” She realized what she was saying. “Well, it’s quiet now, anyway.”

“Thanks to you two,” Maggie put in. “And Madame Orloff.”

All four of them glanced at the old woman, waiting patiently in the cab, then looked at each other.

“I don’t quibble with success,” Illya said, speaking for all of them.

Maggie stepped forward, hardly able to look at them.

“I’m so terribly...” she blushed.

Napoleon gave her a charming smile and took her hand. “I can think of far worse fates than being kissed by a pretty girl.” He raised her hand, touched it to his lips.

“Thank you, Mr. Solo,” she said, still pink. She turned to Illya, impulsively leaning forward to kiss him on the cheek. “Thank you, too, Illya.”

Napoleon raised his brows at this, but his partner ignored him.

“It was my pleasure, Maggie,” he replied, stoic.

They climbed into the cab with Madame Orloff and it rattled off up the gravel drive.

Trish and Maggie, side by side, waved until a bend of the road obscured them from sight.

“Your pleasure?” Napoleon teased. “It didn’t look like it from where I sat.”

Illya gave him a long and eloquent look; Napoleon grinned.

* * *

They saw Madame Orloff onto her train with only minutes to spare.

“Thank you so much for your able assistance,” she said, shaking their hands. Napoleon deposited her bag on the seat while Illya helped her into the train. The two men jumped off and shut her door as the whistle squealed and the train started inching forward.

“And remember,” she called from the window, “if you ever need anything in the psychic line..!”

They waved goodbye, gave one another a tired but amused look, and left the station to check out of their hotel. Their own train to London left that night.

Napoleon said nothing when Illya left him for a brief last visit to the antiques shop; he also refrained from using the telescopic glasses, though he was tempted.

* * *

Illya laid claim to the back-facing seat and lay down with an exaggerated, put-upon sigh, as if his partner were responsible for what they’d been through.

Napoleon didn’t respond as he sat on the other seat, stretching out his aching leg. Instead he pulled out a pocket calendar. They still had five days of holiday time coming to them, barring sudden disasters or hauntings. He wondered if it was worth it to fly to Monte, or whether they should settle for somewhere closer, like Paris.

He fingered the calendar, tapping the date as something floated up from the bottom of his memory.

“Hey.”

Nothing. He glanced at Illya, stretched on the other seat with his back to Napoleon, his coat draped over him.

“Do you know we’ve been partners exactly three years today?”

“Really.” Illya’s muffled reply could hardly have sounded less interested.

“Am I keeping you awake?” Napoleon thought back. Why hadn’t he remembered the anniversary of their first or second years as partners?

“Only with your talking.”

Napoleon snorted. Eventually the reasons came to him. The first year they’d been in a cell in the basement of a castle owned by a neoNazi group, naked, hugging each other to stay warm as they tried to cadge something like sleep in between interrogations. The second year they’d been in ... Alaska? Canada? Somewhere icy and inhospitable, trudging across the tundra in search of a hidden weapons base. Illya had taken a bullet meant for him on that mission.

“Three years ... it doesn’t seem like that long, somehow,” he said, then, mindful of his partner, “Sorry.”

Illya groaned, rolled over to face him. “No, no, it’s all right. I slept two days ago.” He settled again with a long-suffering sigh, propped up on one elbow. “Three years today, you were saying.”

“Do you remember the day we met?” Napoleon asked, smiling. Illya echoed the smile as he cast his mind back.

“I remember. I wouldn’t have given good odds we’d last three days.”

Napoleon laughed. “About five o’clock, wasn’t it? And our plane to Greece left at 7. I thought Mr. Waverly was so worried about pairing us up he didn’t want to give us a chance to get to know each other before he sent us off.”

“In fact,” Illya said, “It was 5:15, which would be 10:15 here.”

“In four minutes,” Napoleon said, looking at his watch and feeling a curious little thrill at the realization. “Three years. We’ve been through a lot, haven’t we? Every time I think we’ve seen it all—”

“Something like this happens,” Illya grumbled, thrashing about on the seat as if he’d discovered he was lying on a rock.

“But we’ve never faced a situation I thought we couldn’t handle.”

Still shifting around, Illya said, “That’s no compliment. It’s just your irrationally optimistic nature talking.”

Napoleon chuckled. “So far I’ve been right.”

“If you measure success by the simple fact of survival.” Illya sat up, feeling about in the pockets of the coat he was using as a blanket.

“Given the odds we’ve faced, I’d say our survival is a pretty good measure of our success.” He glanced at his watch again. “Happy anniversary. I don’t have any champagne, but—”

A small object came flying toward him in a high, gentle arc. He caught it. “What’s this?”

“Animal, vegetable or mineral,” came his partner’s response as Illya lay back down, pulling the coat around him once again.

Napoleon opened a small velvet covered jewelry box to find cufflinks, delicate cages of antique gold threaded round small sard cabochons. He held the box up to the light to admire the soft brown-red gleam of the stones, and was caught, drawn into a memory. Their first case as a team had been in Greece, at an ancient chalcedony mining site that produced stone of this same alluring color. Though the stones themselves had played no part in the case, anytime Napoleon saw sard after that, he recalled that successful mission, that magical click that had told him he’d found the perfect partner.

Typical of Illya to remember.

“Illya...” He swallowed. “I don’t know what to say. They’re perfect.” Like our partnership, he thought, but knew better than to state; Illya would mock him mercilessly for such a maudlin observation.

“I don’t have anything to give you in return,” he added meekly.

Illya grinned evilly. “It isn’t often I get to surprise you, move you, and one-up you all with one present. That’s gift enough.”

Napoleon rolled his eyes. “If I wasn’t feeling so mushy toward you right now, I’d kill you.”

“Lucky me,” Illya muttered. “Perhaps now you’ll be so good as to let me sleep?” He turned over and lay back down, pulling the coat up over his shoulders.

Napoleon stared at his back, hearing the clacking of the train wheels on the rails, thinking about the past three years, thinking about the effort and thought put into a gift that Illya had practically thrown at him as if it were an annoyance. Thinking about what these three years would have been like without this man at his side.

“Thank you,” he said, all those thoughts wrapped up in the two words.

Illya shifted, turned over to meet his gaze, clearly hearing the emotion in Napoleon’s voice. “You’re welcome, Napoleon.”

The unveiled warmth of his tone made Napoleon smile.

“I’ll get even with you, you sneaky Russian. I’ll get you a gift to outdo yours.”

Illya closed his eyes. His voice was sleepy, but clear and sincere. “You give me that gift every day. The gift of your friendship.”

Napoleon felt his eyes prickle. He shook his head, deeply moved, and forced out the word: “Bastard.”

Illya grinned, pulled the coat tighter around him. “Happy anniversary, Napoleon.”

“Go to sleep.”  He watched in silence until his partner’s breathing told him Illya had dozed off. “Happy anniversary, _tovarish_.”

The End

 


End file.
